


one phone call

by OofGetaLoadofThisSociety (marin27)



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Arthur Fleck Needs A Hug, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Beginning of a Slow-burn, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Implied Suicide Attempts, M/M, Other, Pre-Canon, Pre-Joker Events, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Hotline, at least for now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-11-25 15:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20914667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marin27/pseuds/OofGetaLoadofThisSociety
Summary: Arthur got a double dosage of his prescription today. He knows why.But he received a number. A hotline number from his psychiatrist. Maybe they can help-A story about Arthur calling a suicide hotline, and he might end up liking the caller.It's a gender-neutral reader-insert. I use 'them/they' pronoun for this.Trigger Warning: Suicidal Thoughts, Implied Suicide AttemptsThere's not a lot but I'll still warn you guys, Joker Spoilers! It's set before the movie and as the fic progresses, the movie events start to happen.





	1. one phone call

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Suicidal Thoughts, Implied Suicide Attempts  
Ngl, I don't know if I'm going to continue this. It has potential. If yall are interested in this getting more parts, I don't mind.  
Also be gentle, as I'm still trying to figure out how to write Arthur's internal dialogue or the way he's speaking. I've only seen the movie twice at this point.  
Joker Spoilers!

It is quiet.

There are no sirens, no bumps in the night, no screaming.

It is a rare occurrence in the messy hell-hole that is Gotham City.

Arthur would call it a small blessing. Really, anything that isn’t bad nowadays is considered a blessing. They are far and few between.

The chilly air in the early fall gives rise to goosebumps on Arthur's skin, despite the two layers he has on. The radiator doesn’t work anymore.

Another thing out of his paycheck.

He rests his head on the cool countertop, letting the soft static of the television numb the dark emptiness that is his own mind. Hunched over the kitchen floor, he plays with the orange bottle in his pocket, feeling the pills rattle inside with a quiet intimidating presence. It’s taunting him. The clacks and clicks of pills bumping into each other.

He asked for an extra dosage today. He didn’t know why.

But the fuzziness in his head is louder, the ache in his left shoulder more bone-deep and the blandness on his tongue with each spoonful of frozen dinner he had an hour ago was unbearable.

Arthur has a feeling; it’s one of those days.

He swallows past his thick tongue. He can barely feel himself breathing.

Arthur mentally remembers the dosage on the prescription. Twice as the last.

It seems convenient. Pop the cap and do with it. He doubts anyone would miss him. He gives it a week before his colleagues would even notice. Maybe Gary would. He gave Arthur a card last Christmas. He’d notice.

His mom too. But he doubts she’d be much help to the police. _Always such a happy boy._

He pulls the bottle out of his pocket, feeling his fingers already shaking. His bony hands slide out, but a crumpled piece of paper falls onto the tiled floor. It’s green and wrinkled; he doesn’t move to pick it up. Arthur just stares at its place on the floor. He knows what it is.

_“What is this?”_

_“A suicide hotline. Another department was set up two weeks ago. I’m supposed to hand every one of these out to all my patients. You never know when it can be useful.” _

Arthur almost wants to laugh. The one time he’s thinking of this is the one time the universe is telling him to not do it.

He takes a deep breath.

Calling them would be useless, he knows. He doubts he’d even go through with it today. He’s had this day many times before. It’s nothing new. But... this ‘hotline’ thing is something new, and it sets off a curiosity in him.

His psychiatrist never said much about it, just that the people over the line are there to help when someone calls. Arthur doesn't think that talking to someone over the phone would help a lot. If talking to someone face to face doesn’t help, who thinks that a faceless voice could do any better?

He looks at the orange pill bottle in his hand, a crease between his brow forming, and back at the piece of paper. He takes a minute, just staring at it.

The static is still running, the knob in between two channels. His mom doesn’t like it when she can hear people on the television, especially after she goes to bed.

The tap is leaking and Arthur doesn’t want to call a plumber. It’s been like that for years. Sometimes, he likes the consistent tapping that comes from the water droplets falling into the sink.

For some odd reason, he reaches down to pick it up. Unfurling the wrinkled edges, he takes a moment to stare at the black numbers written against the green paper.

He hobbles out of the kitchen and next to the house phone. Eyes still glued on the paper, he takes the phone off of the receiver. He stops. The bottle of pills still in his hand.

Slowly, he puts it down next to the answering machine, the bottles rattling. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing or why he's doing it.

Perhaps curiosity, possibly a silent cry for help. Whatever reason it is, Arthur doesn’t try to find it out, and within moments, his index finger is pushing down on each number. The ones written on the paper.

At first, there’s nothing over the line. A click, and then—

“You have reached Gotham’s Suicide Prevention Lifeline. If you are in emotional distress or are concerned about someone who might be, we’re here to help. Please wait on the line as we route your call to the nearest crisis center.”

Arthur closes his eyes and pitches forward, his forehead resting against the door frame. He breathes slowly out his nose as ‘elevator’ music starts playing. An automated message, what was he thinking, that someone would be there on the line at three a.m.? He’s about to pull away from the phone when—

“Hi, you’ve reached Gotham’s Suicide Prevention Lifeline, how may I help you?”

Arthur stops.

He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move a muscle. Now that he’s here, he doesn’t know what to do or say.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Arthur still keeps his mouth shut. It’s a... nice voice, he notes.

“If you don’t want to talk, just let me know if you’re listening, okay? Can you press a number for me?”

Idly, Arthur can feel his hand moving on its own to press number ‘5’.

A soft sigh can be heard over the line. “Okay, are you in any emergency or in any pain? Press once for yes and twice for no.”

His finger presses down twice.

“So, you’re not a talker, huh? That’s alright. I’m here for as long as you need me to be.” A pause hangs in the air, and Arthur is already regretting this.

“How are you doing? Are you doing good?”

Arthur hovers his finger over the keypad.

He presses twice reluctantly, a small pause in between each beep.

“Aw, that’s too bad. I know those days. They really suck, don’t they?” 

He presses down once.

A soft chuckle crackles over the line.

“Yeah. I hope the day isn’t too terrible for you, but that wouldn’t be the case if you were calling the line, would it?” Arthur just stays silent even more. “So, uh, did you see the new Murray Franklin episode tonight?”

Immediately, Arthur presses down on the number, almost too excitedly.

“Yeah, it was good, wasn’t it? I didn’t like that bit about Franklin talking to Dr. Sally about her kids, though. I thought that was kinda mean.”

Arthur makes a beep come through.

“You think so too? Huh.”

Arthur settles down, sliding to the floor as he tugs the phone cord. He stares at the bottle in his hand once more. He supposes the pills would be too hard to swallow anyway. And the person talking over the phone has a... nice voice. They sound like a nice person too, but Arthur resigns any hope for that fact as the person is just doing their job. He wouldn’t put it past them if they acted as grumpy as everyone else does out there. He of all people knows how to put on a mask.

But he wonders whether if there’s really any harm in talking. It’s not like the call can be traced back, and there should be guidelines on how to treat the callers in distress. The person on the phone with him right now wouldn’t say any bad things to his face even if they wanted to. So, what’s the harm, right?

“—like all the other Murray Franklin episodes are great but—”

“My name’s Arthur.” His voice sounds scratchy, from the lack of use and the five cigarettes he smoked today. It’s silent over the line.

For once in the entire day, Arthur can feel something other than the emptiness in his chest. Anxiety. Over what the person on the other end of the line is thinking. He supposes it’s better than the deep aches he gets.

“Arthur, huh?" They introduce themselves to him.

“I’m here to help you. Is there anything, in particular, you want to talk about?”

Arthur blinks, almost shaken out of his stupor. He looks up to stare at the orange bottle resting next to the receiver, another daunting presence in his life. “There’s a bottle of pills here.”

He knows they are taken aback when he let those words come out, without abandon, because they're left silent for a few moments. “Oh? What do you plan on doing with those pills, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Just a few minutes ago, I was planning on swallowing them. I’m... not sure now.”

“Do you want to talk about why you were planning on taking those pills?”

Arthur doesn’t really want to. Besides, there are about a million reasons why he would take these pills and explaining all of them to this poor person doesn’t seem like such a good waste for both of their time.

Arthur is about to open his mouth to speak when he feels his throat close up and_ oh no._

_Not again._

He can feel the dread pool in his stomach, the anxiety in his limbs jumping out of his skin and before he knows it, inappropriate peals of laughter start spilling out of his mouth, unbearable for Arthur to hold in. The emergence of his sudden laughter causing more stress for his already tired head.

“Are-Are you okay?”

“No, I—” Arthur doubles over, laughing again. His lips are downturned into a deep frown, but Arthur can’t stop the laughter, no matter how hard he tries to close his mouth. God, he hates this.

“I-I have a condition—” Arthur wants to curse at himself, his chest seizing up as he tries to keep it in. It’s almost painful, his face scrunching up into an expression he doesn’t want as his strained voice comes out in between fits of unwanted laughter.

A few moments pass and nothing is said over the line. His throat starts to hurt; it hurts more the more he tries to choke it back. Once Arthur has a moment of breathing, the person on the other line cuts in, “Pathological laughter, isn’t it? I read about it from a study a while ago. Uncontrollable fits of laughter.”

Arthur holds his breath, and once he feels that his chest isn’t going to seize up anymore, he lets it out. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost slightly relieved.

“Is there anything I can do to help you feel better? Should I continue talking when you start laughing or should I wait for you?”

Arthur keeps quiet about this for a moment. He’s never had someone ask him this before. Sure, his colleagues are nice enough to keep quiet about it, but none of them have really asked if there’s anything they can do to make him feel more comfortable when one of his fits occur. It’s... refreshing.

“No, no, no. I’d rather you... just wait it out.”

“You sure? Because I don’t want to make you feel like you have to keep quiet when you start laughing. I read that it hurts when people try to keep it in.”

“It’s—It’s okay. I don’t get those fits often. They just... last long.”

“Oh, I see. Well, if it happens again, I’ll be sure to just keep my mouth shut.” Arthur can feel his lips twitch into a smile.

“So, about those pills.” Arthur holds his breath.

“Why were you going to swallow them?”

He breathes through his nose, his chest weighed down by the heavy question. Arthur gets up from his slouched position on the floor, and he carries the whole phone to the coffee table, settling into the couch.

“It’s just... one of those days. I don’t even know if I was going to.”

Arthur coils the cord around his finger as he hears the caller breathe into the mic. “I’ve had many days like this before, you know?”

The caller has a lilt to their voice, possibly strained. “Yeah, of course. Do you know what’s the relation of all these days?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like, what do all these days have in common.” The caller sounds a little more curious. Not judgmental like his colleagues, not pressing like his psychiatrist; just curiosity. Arthur decides he likes that.

“You know, the mean people on the street, the kids who make fun of me, the people who say something when I start... laughing.” Arthur can feel his body tense when he says ‘laughing’. He doesn’t like his condition, but he’s learned to live with it. He hates how it affects the way people see him, just because he has a condition. He loathes it. It limits him in how he wants to live his life. He fears of bursting out in laughter on stage, worries over whether he’d scare the kids he’s supposed to be entertaining and hates how it stops him from interacting with anyone he’s remotely interested in. He’s never had a real relationship in his life.

“Kids make fun of you?” The person almost sounds affronted, like the kids personally insulted them, not some stranger they are calling. Arthur is unsure of what to feel about that.

“Yeah, I’m a clown. Sometimes I work for other shops to spin signs. Kids on the street passing by usually laugh at me. Normally, I’d enjoy it, like the kids down at the hospital, but these kids mean it differently.”

“They laugh at you, not because of you?” Arthur blinks.

“Yeah, exactly.”

There seems to be a contemplative pause from the other person.

“I think it’s best to just ignore it. They’re just kids and you know how Gotham is like these days.” Arthur breathes out a dry laugh.

“Yeah, I get what you mean. Kids do it ‘cause they have nothing else to do.”

“Don’t take it too personally.” Arthur rarely ever talks about the things he goes through daily, mostly because it’s what he goes through every day. It’s his normal and he shouldn’t be complaining about it. But some days, all Arthur wants in the world is for someone to listen, to just relate to him, to empathize with him.

“So, about those people who talk about you.” Arthur hums.

“Do they... say anything bad?”

“I don’t think they have anything good to say when they see a man laughing hysterically on the bus.” The person laughs. A good-natured laugh, a sound that almost rattles Arthur’s brain, an unknown feeling rolling down his spine.

“Yeah, I guess that’s fair.”

“I don’t like it. The way they... look at me like I’m some sort of freak show.”

“Yeah, I get it. It must be that terrible, huh?”

“People don’t say much. It’s when they keep quiet and make faces that really get to me. Because I know what they’re thinking, what they want me to do, and that’s to keep quiet and act like there’s nothing wrong with me but I can’t. I have to act like them—like I’m normal—and it’s horrible. That’s the worst part.”

The person sighs over the phone, a solemn sound. “I’m really sorry about that, Arthur.”

He shakes his head, “It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you have to be sorry about.”

“It’s not your fault either. You never chose to have this condition, but people don’t see that.” Arthur feels his lips twitch into a smile again.

“Tell me about your day,” they say. It catches Arthur off-guard.

“About-About me?”

“Yeah. I want to get to know you a little better.” Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that or even feel about it. But there’s a longing in his chest, a soft ache that doesn’t hurt. It’s gentle, almost caressing him from within. It’s an ache that hits all the good spots. He’s never felt like this before.

“Really?”

Arthur hears the smile in their voice.

“Really.”

And so, Arthur does. He tells them about the kids he saw today at the hospital, about the one person he saw smile when he was sign spinning, and the Murray Franklin episode he saw with his mom. He tells them about the things he felt today, the emptiness, the loneliness, the deep bone ache he gets when people send him looks. It’s like a small weight off of his shoulders. Something that is relieving, more than any pills can do for him. The way they reply too, it eases something in him.

“Are you okay?” Their soft is soft, gentle and genuinely concerned. It’s more sincerity he’s ever heard from anyone in the longest time, from anyone other than his mother.

Arthur looks at the pills from across the room. Still orange, still intimidating, and still twice the dosage as last time. But the emptiness in his chest has lessened, the ache in his shoulder has become dull and he can finally taste the menthol on his tongue from his last cigarette.

“Yeah, I think so.” Arthur feels a tingle in his chest when they chuckle. It’s a sweet sound, he admits. Their voice too. It’s relaxing. A soothing balm to the unbearable static and aches in his head.

“Better than before?”

“Definitely. Thank you, really.” Arthur is grinning now.

“It was really great to talk to you, Arthur.”

“Really?” He likes his person.

“Yeah, really. You seem to be good company.”

Arthur has an idea, but with that idea comes anxiety. Again, he feels unsure of where the boundaries are. He knows if he steps out of line there’s a possibility to never hear from this person again; and if he hangs up, he doubts he can be routed to the same caller. Gotham has a population of over a million, there’s no way he’ll get to hear from them again if he lets them go. It’s a long shot, but he doesn’t want to lose a chance to talk with this person more. He rarely meets anyone like them, someone who can empathize with him, understands and wants to listen to his struggles.

Arthur wants to get to know them better, wants to know why they do this, wants to know what drives them to do good even in this godforsaken city; he wants to see them, wants to hear that relaxing voice in real life, wants to see them laugh the way they do over the phone.

“Uh-Uh, can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Anything.”

Arthur sucks in a breath.

“Can I have your phone number?”

There’s a long pause.

“Why?” Arthur feels his heart leap to his throat. This could be his chance.

“Because you seem like a really nice person and I-I think I want to talk to you more. Get to know you better if that’s alright with you.”

There’s silence.

“No.”

Arthur’s heart sinks, and he feels shame burn the tips of his ears.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I want your phone number.”

_What?_

“What?”

“I don’t... I don’t trust people with my phone number. I’d prefer it if you gave yours to me. And I can call you sometime.”

Arthur almost swears his face splits when he smiles. 

“O-Oh. You’re serious?” They hum. Arthur spills out the house number, the words tumbling out of his mouth at an embarrassing speed.

Arthur almost feels shy now. “Are you really going to call me back?”

He can hear the movement of their mouth; they’re smiling.

“Of course. As I said, you seem like good company. You said you like comedy, right? I don’t mind having conversations about Murray Franklin or stand-up. I like comedy, too.”

“So, yes, I am serious about calling you some other time.”

Arthur truly can’t believe his luck. Maybe this hotline does help him.

“So, I’ll be hearing from you soon, then?” He feels shyness tugging at the back of his head again. 

“Maybe not too soon, I’m busy for the next couple of days. Maybe during the weekend? I’ll call you then.”

“Of course, of course. Until then.” Arthur is about to put the phone down when he remembers.

“Hey. I just... wanted to say thank you. For answering my call and listening.”

“It’s no problem at all, Arthur. You have a good night, okay?”

“Okay.” Arthur grins, putting his phone down onto the receiver to end the call.

He stands up and gets to his bottle of pills. He picks it up and places it on the kitchen counter, next to the other pill bottles, a feeling of relief echoing throughout his body.

He likes them. That’s easy for him to say.

The thought that they might like him too is enough to send him into a fit of laughter, only this time, he’s not choking it back.

He smiles bigger than he has in days.


	2. a sick day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is sick, but some thoughts help him along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELP  
Guess I'm continuing this xd  
Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Trigger Warning: Vomiting, descriptions of vomiting.

Arthur feels sick. 

Truly sick. 

It might have been the leftover sandwich he ate for lunch from last night. He thought it’d still be good. Besides, he’s gained an iron stomach from the countless number of times he’s eaten something bad. It’s easier on his wallet to never waste leftovers. However, it does have the rare adverse consequence of getting sick and not being able to afford treatment. 

His bony finger tugs on his collar, trying to cool the cold sweat forming on his neck—his clown make up becoming greasier by the minute. When he pulls his hand away to grab his cup of water, he realises with a dreaded sigh that his makeup has gotten on his gloves, white staining the yellow fabric. 

He plasters on a grin, turning around to face the group of children having fun with the animal balloons he procured for them. One of the younger ones, probably four or five, gives him a big toothy grin that Arthur heartily returns. The little girl turns shy and dashes off to join the other kids. 

Taking a sip of water, he searches the crowd for the balding head, the man who hired him for his son’s sixth birthday party. When Arthur catches those eyes, tired and worn-out from hosting a party—only just realising he bit off more than he can chew—he sends Arthur a lazy wave; he can leave. It’s already five in the afternoon, he’s been here an hour longer than he’s supposed to be. 

Arthur gives a wave back and a friendly smile that is strained around the edges. 

He can feel nausea crawling into his stomach. Normally, Arthur would take a plate of the food for himself during birthday parties but now, even just the smell of the barbeque is enough to make him queasy. 

Arthur’s friendly smile doesn’t hold up, slowing turning into a grimace with every step he takes towards the front door. 

He walks out of the apartment, giving a few cheery waves to the kids, closing the door behind him when he leaves. He’s only able to hobble a few steps before he can feel the bile rushing up. 

His shaky legs are able to bring him to the garbage chute, which he opens up before he starts retching, all of the day’s contents spilling out of him and into the dirty metal tube. He feels himself shake and heave, his thin body convulsing as he empties out his already almost empty stomach. Gross wet sounds and groans echo throughout the chute, making Arthur dizzier than he already is with the deafening echoes of his own pain. 

He realises with a groan that he also puked up the meds he took an hour ago. He’ll have to retake them, with food, and he doubts he can stomach anything anymore. Not even the water he was barely sipping at the party helped him. 

He slumps against the wall, slamming the chute with a shaky hand. He coughs, still tasting the bile and the sandwich he ate hours ago on his tongue. Not for the first time, Arthur wonders why he has to live like this. 

He rarely takes time to throw himself a pity party. But feeling exhausted, hungry, and ultimately not all the great, Arthur decides he deserves a few minutes of self-pity for himself. 

He can still feel the nausea eating him up inside, turning his stomach upside down, even with nothing in it. 

_ What a joke. _

He wheezes, feeling the makeup crease in the corner of his upturned lips. 

_ My life. Truly pathetic. _

He rests his palms on his uneasy stomach, feeling two bottles of pills in the two pockets of his clown suit. They rattle. They make themselves known to him. They intimidate him. 

He laughs a little more. 

He laughs because he finds it funny. How the most unlikely situations brought him here. 

If he hadn’t bought that extra dosage last week, he would’ve had money in his budget to buy an extra sandwich for today. He wouldn’t have had to split the only sandwich he bought yesterday and save it, only for it to go bad. If he hadn’t bought that extra dosage the last week, he wouldn’t be puking his guts out, more sick than he’s been in months. Physically speaking. 

He doubts he’s been mentally sound for a long time. 

He laughs. 

He _ laughs. _

But something hits him. 

A small thought that crawled into the back of his head, begging to be noticed. 

Slowly, his laughter goes silent, his lips turning downwards despite the big red painted grin, as he realises something. 

If he hadn’t bought that extra dosage, he wouldn't have picked up the card and dialled that number. He would have never met them. He would have never talked to them. 

That friendly, caring, genuine person. The only person he has been really talking to for the past few days. 

_ “Arthur can you be a dear and pick up that phone?” Arthur gets up from his position on the couch, turning the knob for the volume of the television. “Yes, mom!” _

_ He picks up on the fourth ring, hoping it’s not one of those salespeople again. _

_ “Hello?” _

_ It’s quiet over the line. Until a gentle, almost familiar voice speaks up. _

_ “Is-Is this Arthur?” _

_ “Yeah... Who are you?” _

_ “I’m that person you talked to earlier this week on the phone. You called the suicide _ _ hotline _ _ , do you remember?” _

_ Arthur stares blankly. How can he forget? He’s been thinking about their conversation for days, almost obsessing over his interaction with them. He’s visited the memory of them talking for an hour over the phone in his head countless times, thought about that person who was earnest and showed him kindness when he needed it. It’s become one of his ‘Good’ memories. They’re rare, but Arthur keeps them close to his heart, revisiting them in his head when he needs it. It’s better than his daydreams. _

_ “Yes-Yes, of course. It’s you.” Arthur almost can’t really believe that they did call him. They picked up their phone and dialled him number by choice. _

_ “Yeah, just _ _ ol _ _ ’ me,” they chuckle, a touch of shyness in their tone. Arthur clears his throat. “How are you?” he manages to say. He almost wants to smack his forehead. Is that the best he can do? How are you? _

_ “I’m doing okay, all things considered. I bought that Frank Sinatra record you were talking about, wanted to see what was so good about it.” _

_ Arthur perks up. “Well?” he asks, awaiting. _

_ “I don’t know about you, but I think I have new found love for jazz. Never thought I would, I always thought it was—” _

_ “Pretentious.” Arthur finishes, grinning. “That was what you said.” _

_ “I take it back. I take everything back I said about jazz. The music is great,” they say, a touch apologetic. “I can see why you like it so much.” _

_ “But why didn’t you like jazz? Really?” Arthur asks, curiosity in his voice as he leans against the door frame. _

_ “I prefer a little more rock and roll. Remember how huge it was a few years back?” Arthur hums affirmatively. _

_ “Rock and rock as in who? Those beetle guys? Or—” he trails off, receiving a soft laugh in return. _

_ “The Beatles.” Arthur can hear the smile in their kind voice. “Everyone really. I don’t have a specific artist in mind. I keep my mind open for music. Just as long as they’re good, I’m bound to listen to it.” A crackle goes over the phone. _

_ “Why? Is rock not for you?” their voice sounds a little more relaxed than just now. Arthur guesses they are laying in a more comfortable position than they were before. The realisation that they are keen on talking with Arthur for longer makes him crack a sneaky grin. _

_ “Not really,” he simply says, shrugging as if it helps him. _

_ “Hmm, maybe you should give it a try. You don’t know if it’ll spark something,” they say. _

_ Arthur subtly shakes his head, “I can’t afford the records.” _

_ “I can lend you some—” _

_ “Arthur, who is that?” Arthur turns in the direction of his mother’s room, the door still closed. _

_ “Just a friend, mom!” he calls back, turning back to the call. “Sorry, you were saying something?” _

_ There’s a beat of silence then, “Is that your mom?” _

_ Arthur coughs a laugh, “Yeah. She wanted to know who I was talking to.” _

_ “Say hi to her for me.” _

_ Arthur turns around and does so. _

_ “Tell them hi back!” she calls behind the closed door. _

_ They’re laughing over the call when Arthur presses the phone against his ear—the sound bringing a grin to his face. _

_ “She’s sweet,” they say. “At least now I know where you get it from.” _

_ Arthur blinks. Suddenly, he feels the tips of his ears heat up. _

_ “Get what?” he mutters curiously. _

_ “Where you get your heart,” they say with the utmost seriousness. His ears burn, the pink flush hidden by his brown unkempt tendrils. He rubs the side of his neck, feeling itchy there. _

_ “You’re...nice,” Arthur says lamely. He winces, but the effect wavers when they chuckle sweetly, “Thank you. I’m flattered.” _

_ “You really are nice. I don’t really think I’ve talked to someone as nice as you in a while,” Arthur confesses. They pause. _

_ Arthur has a creeping fear of stepping over a line when they say, almost breathlessly, “Thank you. I... I needed to hear that today.” _

_ Arthur feels tension ease out of his body like gas escaping a balloon. “No problem.” _

_ They share a moment in silence. Arthur doesn’t know what they are feeling, but what he does feel is a sense of calm, the same one he experienced a few days ago. It’s still better than the pills. _

_ “So, you remember what Murray said last night?” _

Arthur blinks. 

He’s still at the apartment complex. 

He looks at his watch. Only ten minutes have passed. 

The bile in the corners of his mouth has dried up, mixing in with his makeup. His mouth tastes foul but the nausea has subsided. When he hears the pills rattle, they don’t instill the fear in him anymore, doesn’t make him freeze up and get stuck in his own head. He breathes, properly and deeply, releasing the pent-up tension and exhaustion from his body in a single breath for the first time in days. 

The brash, loud noise in his head has become a soft chatter instead. Arthur is able to ignore it now, despite the fact he has upchucked most, if not all, of his medicine he took this afternoon. 

Ten minutes should be enough. His pity party is officially over. He feels loads better than he did before. He’s able to think clearly and the aches in his body aren’t as obnoxious, though his stomach does feel sore from trying to expel everything. 

He hears the sound of their laughter in his head again, and Arthur—not for the first time—imagines that he’s the cause of that sound. 

Dirty, tired and dizzy, Arthur is somehow able to muster up whatever energy he has left to stand up and head to the elevator. He pulls out a handkerchief to remove the grime on his face, being careful of the makeup. He doesn’t want to receive a complaint that someone shit their pants because of a clown wore terrifying makeup. It’s happened before to one of his colleagues. 

As he walks to the bus stop, he ponders over some things. 

The person he talked to, are they just talking to him because they feel bad? They feel obligated to help because it’s their job? Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if they were just doing so out of sympathy. Receiving judgement, even hate, can be bad but receiving handouts as the product of someone’s sympathy? He can’t handle that. It often leads to disappointment when he realises what their end-goal is, to make themselves feel better about themselves for ‘giving’. 

Arthur resigns himself to the fact he’ll have to find out what their main goal is, despite this whole arrangement they have. An arrangement that Arthur has been enjoying.

So far, they have had a total of four conversations in the past week. 

The first was when Arthur contacted the suicide hotline, meeting them for the first time. The other three times was when they call him up to check up on him, often asking if he feels better. And because they have Arthur’s number and he doesn’t have theirs, it’s ultimately up to them to contact him. And Arthur is always left feeling a little disgruntled by that fact. 

He understands why they wouldn’t trust a random stranger, but Arthur can’t help it. It’s not too often that Arthur has a semi-good, sort-of consistent thing in his life. So, the fact it is out of his control does make Arthur feel a little lost. 

He sits at the back of the bus, laying his head against the rumbling glass. 

He’s met people before, ones he thought were good but turned out to only ever want something from him.

The people who come in and out of his life have one thing in common; they are selfish, sucking and bleeding him dry until they have no use for him anymore. 

It’s been years since anyone has seen any value in him, and he doubts he could get anyone to approach him with his sickening laughter and even more sickening head. Years of treatment from people like that have led him to have uncountable issues; it has him bringing baggage into the psychiatrist’s office that’s taller than Arthur if he stacked them on top of each other. 

They come in, leave, and Arthur is left to fix himself together. 

Those people, selfish bastards, are now the people who see him but don’t look at him. They notice but don’t care. They are the same people who pass him by the street, giving unsettled, hateful looks when he laughs. 

They don’t appreciate what Arthur is doing, who he is. They don’t give a shit about him. 

But Arthur has found someone. Someone who does give a shit. Someone who calls and ask how he’s doing, how his mother is doing. Arthur doesn’t want that painful cycle to repeat and yet, he still wants them closer. Wants to get to know them better, despite the risks. 

It’s reached a point where Arthur has stopped caring of what would become of him if he took a step out of line. 

Besides, it’s not like they have shown anything but kindness towards him. 

If his laughter doesn’t scare them off, what will? 

The bus stops, and Arthur looks up to realise he’s in front of the pharmacy. He limps off the bus, his lanky frame swaying side to side despite the stiffness in his stature. 

Climbing the steps is a hassle. Every day, morning and evening, he’s left to a steep set of stairs that almost seem never-ending. Each landing is like a punch to his lungs, a tight squeeze of his muscles. He’s left breathless, tired after every climb due to the fact he’s barely eating. 

Once he reaches the top, he takes a minute to take in the stale air that is Gotham city, smelling of chemicals and rubbish. Arthur doesn’t remember the last time he’s smelt fresh air, other than the times he passes by the park. Even then, the pollution from the streets are almost thick enough to make him dizzy. But it’s Gotham. It’s home. 

He climbs his apartment complex, ignoring the same neighbours who always give him the disapproving stare, especially whenever he wears the makeup. He couldn’t care less. He likes the neighbours who pretend he doesn’t exist more. 

He basically shoulders his way into his door; the day has taken its toll on his body. He stumbles into his apartment, shrugging off his jacket, still in his clown costume. He doesn’t hear his mother talk when the door open. Must be asleep. 

He kicks off his shoes and the coldness from the tiled floor is a welcomed sensation to his sore feet. He wanders further into the house, heading to the washroom to clean up. When he wipes off the makeup, watching the white and red swirl into the drain, he licks the inside of his mouth, realising it still tastes disgusting. He brushes his teeth and hops into the shower, washing off the aches and the grime that his skin seems to collect from Gotham’s air pollution. 

Feeling more relaxed, yet exhausted, he melts into the couch, not wanting to move. He can hear the buzzing in his head getting quieter and quieter with every moment. 

Until the phone rings. 

He bolts up, water droplets from the strands of his hair flinging everywhere, his sunken eyes now staring widely at the ringing telephone. He doesn’t waste two moments to stride over and pick it up. 

“Hello?” 

“Arthur? Is it you?” 

It’s them. 

His shoulders fall, relaxing further. 

“Hi.” 

“Hi. Wanted to see how that birthday gig went today. Did it go okay?” 

Arthur brings the whole phone to the coffee table, and lays across the couch with his feet crossed, hand behind his head. 

“It went alright. The kids were fun to entertain. Some of the adults found me creepy.” 

“You are a clown. Not everyone finds them fun like kids do,” they point out. 

“Comes with the job,” Arthur says, tone joking. He pauses. “I got a bad case of food poisoning.” 

“Damn, shit, are you okay?” they sound... genuinely concerned. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he shrugs it off. A phantom feeling of his muscles spasms echoes within him. 

“Doesn’t sound fine. Did you go to the doctor?” 

“Didn’t want to. It’s just food poisoning.” 

They sigh. “I’m sorry, Arthur. Hope you feel better soon.” 

_ I already do. _

Arthur closes his eyes. 

“Tell me about your day,” Arthur softly says. 

They hum contemplatively, a sound which oddly make Arthur smile lightly at. “Well, this morning I met up with a friend, someone I haven’t seen in absolutely forever.” 

“How did that go?” Arthur burrows further into the couch, feeling his muscles go lax. 

“Better than expected. Last time I saw them, was in the Principal’s office for putting paint in their hair.” Arthur chuckles along with them, feeling warmth in his body despite the cool air. 

They talk more about what they did in the last couple of days, filling in the time from when they last spoke with Arthur. They talk about the pair of boots they finally bought after a month of saving, they talk about the cat they saw in the alleyway and the little girl who takes care of it—Selina is her name—they retell the jokes Arthur missed out on from last night’s episode of Murray Franklin, because he had a late gig for some party. 

The more they talk, the more Arthur lulls to sleep, feeling the tendrils of lethargy threatening to pull him down under. 

“Hey,” he mumbles. “Yeah?” 

“You’re... a good... talker. And listener,” Arthur continues, sleep lacing his voice. It’s silent, they’re waiting for Arthur to finish. 

“I’m glad I didn’t take those pills. I’m glad I called you.” 

Arthur isn’t awake to hear their reply, and eventually, they can hear the soft snores from the exhausted man over the phone. 

Blocks away, further from the dingy streets of where Arthur lives, there’s a person cradling a phone close to their ear, lying on their unmade bed with a tender smile on their face as they hear snores. They look outside the window, imagining him sleeping with his phone held loosely in his hand and they smile even wider. 

“Thank you, Arthur. Sleep tight.” 

They gently place the phone onto the receiver, cutting the call. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how was that? I liked a little more of Arthur's mindset in this one, and we get to see how he thinks about 'them'.  
Tell me what you think! I'd love your thoughts on this


	3. an office job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So heres the third chapter! Sadly, I do feel like this chapter is lacking in some ways. Idk what it is but it feels kind of draggy or boring  
This chapter is about the reader and no, their story is not fully shown yet. There's sides of them we have not seen yet and we'll see more of that later.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

They’re smiling, wide and proud as they walk around their cubicle, gathering pictures and knick-knacks to throw them into a box. They carry a stack of paperwork and drop it ceremoniously into the trash. 

“Nope.” They turn, placing their hands over the wall of the cubicle to lean into her face. “I’m quitting.” 

Ava laughs, harsh and fake. It dies off when she realizes the expression on their face doesn’t change. In fact, their smile just seems to get wider. 

“You’re... serious.” Her tone is of disbelief, the incredulity on her face increasing tenfold when they start nodding slowly. “C’mon, you’re really gonna leave me alone here with all the shits for brains in this office? Talking about golf and how much their wives are nagging at them?” 

They laugh, a crinkle of disgust forming on their nose when they remember the men in the office doing exactly that the other day during lunch break. “I’m serious! I can’t listen to that bullshit anymore!” 

“It won’t be too bad with me out of here. You can still see me out of work. We can finally do the shit we want to do without our bosses breathing down our necks.” They pick up their pencil holder, pouring out the pens and stationery into the box, staring at them fall, feeling a sense of liberty the more they pack. Out of the office and into the world. “We can finally join those Wayne riots you wanted so much.” 

Ava scoffs. “Yeah, no. I’m still an employee. They’re gonna kick me faster than HR was in ignoring those lawsuits.” 

They chuckle softly, moving to their lamp to turn it off and pack it with the rest of their stuff. 

“You really are serious about this, huh?” Ava mutters. “Why? You’re in one of the highest-paid jobs in all of Gotham City, and you know the economy is absolute shit.” 

They take a few steps back, slumping into their office chair. A hand comes up to rest their chin on the table like an eager school kid awaiting teacher’s instructions. “I know.” 

“And you’ve been at this job for a long damn time. You worked so hard to get where you are now. Why are you... giving it up?” 

They shrug, a gloomy gleam suddenly in their eye. “I feel like I’ve done what I can do here. I feel like I could be doing more, you know? And it’s not like I’ve been enjoying the work I have been doing.” 

Ava blows a raspberry, “Yeah, tell me about it. You think Wayne pays people to act as his employees on the advertisements on his campaign?” 

“From the way they keep talking about how amazing working for him is? Yeah, definitely. I don’t think Wayne even knows this division exists.” 

“He’s a billionaire. He pays people to pay other people. I doubt he does any of the actual work down here.” 

They look at their scattered items, all over their messy, and clearly expensive desk. Working for Wayne, especially for a division this high on the food chain, is almost a certain guarantee to any other office job in the city. The Waynes only hire the very best. It’s an honor, almost, to be working for the wealthiest family in Gotham; a family that has a hand in almost every type of industry there is. From medical to nuclear energy, to retail, to privatized healthcare. 

They doubt it would be easy getting a job that isn’t in a skyscraper. Besides, with the way that things are now, how people are acting out on the streets, riots over losing jobs and money; it won’t be a cakewalk to their self-fulfillment, not by a long-shot. Especially in a hell-hole like Gotham. This, they know. 

But they don’t want an office job anymore, slaving away at a desk between four walls, counting down the hours, and losing themselves to the mindless activity that is office gossip. By leaving, they won’t have to listen to Karen talk about her shitty kids and even shittier husband; don’t have to pretend as if they don’t see Larry hook up with her behind the copier room during after-hours. They don’t want any more part of it. 

As cheesy as it is, they love how the world is their oyster now. 

Or at the very least, Gotham. 

Any sane person would not want to live in this corrupted, crime-ridden city that has all the problems of an urban area. Homelessness is at an all-time high with the number of people losing jobs due to the steep economy. Tensions are palpable within Gotham Square, with people who are wound up and angry walking down the streets—the atmosphere is suffocating. 

“Well, it’s not like I can stop you on your journey to self-discovery and all that.” A frown is on her lips, lipstick still as bright as when they first met Ava. They get to their feet, and Ava eventually walks around the cubicle walls to pull them into a hug. “I really am gonna miss you.” 

“Aw, c’mon, it’s not like I’m dying or moving away. We’ll keep in touch, okay?” They say, pulling away to see Ava look forlorn, her green eyes losing a little bit of that gleam. 

After packing all of their stuff, they are soon out on the road, waiting for the bus to arrive to take them home. Sitting on a graffitied bench, they glance at their watch, wondering how much longer it would take. 

Settling their box next to them, they huff, cricking their neck from side to side. They stop. In the corner of their eye, they see a bright yellow flyer. 

Curiosity piqued, they stand up, walking over to the streetlamp covered in missing posters and other flyers. On top of all of the other flyers, sits a yellow paper. 

_ Gotham’s Suicide Prevention Hotline. _

_ Volunteers wanted! _

Their eyes scan the rest of the paper. 

_ We are a division full of people who want to help others and give back. _

_ We seek people who share the same goal or have experience in dealing with people in distress. _

They look at the bottom of the page. None of the numbers have been torn off yet. Without giving it a second thought, they tear off a number and pocket it. 

* * *

_ Six months later... _

“Hello, this is Gotham’s Suicide Prevention Hotline, how may I help you?” they start off gently, word coated with kindness and warmth. 

“Uh—yeah, hi. My name’s Chuck and I think I’m in the middle of a midlife crisis.” 

“Oh? Tell me how I can help, Chuck.” 

—

“Hello, this is Gotham’s Suicide Prevention Hotline, how may I help you?” 

“I think my best friend is cutting herself.” 

—

“Good evening, this is Gotham’s Suicide Prevention Hotline, how may I help you?” 

“Uh, hi.” 

“Hello, what’s your name?” 

“Allister.” 

“Okay, Allister, may I ask why you’re calling?” 

“I just... want someone to talk to.” 

“Well, I’m here now. What do you want to talk about?” 

—

“Hello, this is Gotham’s Suicide Prevention Hotline, how may I help you?” 

“I want to jump off the roof, but I’m scared.” 

They pause. 

“Well, have you thought of why you want to jump off the roof?” 

The woman over the phone laughs dryly. “A million reasons.” 

“Why don’t you tell me one of them?” 

It’s silent over the phone at first. 

“My boyfriend cheated on me.” The woman sniffles. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. That must’ve been very hard for you.” 

“It was. I’m pretty sure I almost gave myself alcohol poisoning the other night.” 

“But... you do know it isn’t your fault, right?” 

“No. It was my fault.” They feel a weight forming in the pit of their stomach, feeling her words cut through them like a knife. 

“How so?” 

“I just... wasn’t enough. I would always put my work over him. Even though I said I love him.” 

“And?” 

“And what?” 

“Have you ever thought maybe he has something going on? Something he’s going through that he can’t open up to anyone about? So, he’s doing this to act out.” They bite on their lip. They aren’t supposed to give their opinion or advice on things during calls, but they can’t help it. They can’t just ignore the fact they might be enabling someone’s suicide rather than prevent it. They have to say something. 

They hope they haven’t crossed the line. Sometimes, people hate it when someone puts their two cents in on a situation they know nothing about. 

“I... don’t know. I haven’t thought about it like that.” 

“Are you on the roof right now?” Please don’t be, please don’t be, please— 

“No, I’m in my apartment.” 

“Okay. I want you to turn on the television and put on your favorite channel.” There’s rustling over the line as the woman moves. 

“Okay. I’ve done that.” 

“Good, now I want you to go to your kitchen and make yourself a snack. What do you like to eat?” 

“I...I love the burgers sold down at the joint near my block. Everyone always says that it’s too greasy but I think it’s just right.” 

“What’s your favorite type of music?” 

“Opera. I like how the singers sound like when they put their feelings into it. It’s breathtaking.” There’s a lilt of wonder in her tone, drastically different to her somber one just moments ago. 

“What type of shows do you watch?” 

“Not much. But there’s this one show that everyone watches, it’s some late-night show—” 

“Murray Franklin?” 

“Yeah, that guy. Do you watch him?” 

“Yeah, I do. Every night.” 

* * *

“For tonight’s episode, we have a very special guest with us here. He’s popular, he’s hot, and the way he sings makes all the ladies melt. Give it up for Ray Charles!” 

“How do they even get someone like Ray Charles on the show? It’s Gotham, for crying out loud,” Ava says, munching on popcorn as she leans back on the couch to see her newly painted toenails. They only shrug, taking a mouthful of the salty snack before looking back at the screen. 

“So, how’s that new volunteering thing going?” 

“It’s... new. And very taxing. But also very rewarding.” They pause as if a thought occurred to them. 

“It’s really sad sometimes. The things people in this city are going through.” Ava raises a brow. “Like what?” 

“There was a woman with her two kids who didn’t know what to do after her boyfriend left her. There was this guy who felt like he can’t have sex anymore because his ex raped him. There was a teenage girl who said she feels ostracised from everyone. There are people who are repeat callers because they keep forgetting they already called the suicide hotline. It’s... hard. To listen to someone struggle like that and not be able to help them.” 

Ava blows a breath out. “Yeesh. Why do you stay there if it’s so difficult?” 

They grin to themselves. “It’s rewarding. When I’m actually able to help someone. It’s an amazing feeling. I’m thinking of doing more volunteer work, to be honest.” 

Ava shrugs, looking away to think, “There’s some foundations, like the Martha Wayne foundation that has humanitarian volunteer work, if you’re up for that.” 

“I don’t mind checking that out.” Ava frowns to herself, which ticks something off in them. They turn towards Ava. “Is something wrong?” 

“Nothing... just remembered that Jerry has been blowing me off. I was supposed to go out with him tonight. I don’t know why he keeps ignoring me.” Ava has a real frown on her face, something blue and gloomy etched deeply in her features when something is truly bothering her. 

“He works for Wayne’s campaign, right?” 

“Yeah, he’s been busy a lot.” They nod towards her, “Could be that, you know?” 

“I know, but it’s kind of... rubbing me the wrong way. I don’t know.” 

Something lights off in their head. “Hey, how was that dinner with your parents? How did that go?” 

Ava laughs, the bitterness in it as thick as molasses, her smile strained. “You know my parents. They don’t like Wayne, and they don’t like the idea of me even working for him. So, since Jerry works directly for the guy, by extension that means—” 

“They hate Jerry too?” At Ava’s slow nod, they can’t help the wince. 

They stare idly at the television screen, not exactly watching the show, just looking. Ava has had trouble with her boyfriend for the last few months, with the tensions within her family just getting worse the longer she’s with him. It’s not that her parents have anything against the couple, it’s something that ticks off her parents—and although Ava doesn’t notice it within herself—and her as well, how close Jerry is with Thomas Wayne. 

Her parents are... a part of the riots happening within the city. And although they can tell Ava wants to be a part of that movement, Ava is holding herself back because of Jerry and what he would think of her. 

Thomas Wayne has become corkboard that the people of Gotham can pin their blame on, their frustrations and struggles, the pain they have to go through every day. 

They are not political, but a part of them does agree with how people like Thomas Wayne are not doing anything to improve the city, rather they just suck everything—its soul, its life—from the core, the heart, of what Gotham is. 

Gotham used to thrive. It used to be a utopia where people came to make their dreams come to life. That was until a line was formed between its people and the upper-class, the government and the people who can get away with crimes just because they have the money to sweep it under the rug. It’s inhumane, how they see people are treated by others, out on the street, in the subway, and in homes—_ woman beaten to death by her husband, an employee of _ _ LexCorp _ _ . _

It’d be difficult to miss how truly dirty—contaminated like an infection—the city is. It’s rotten at its core. The decay spreading from within, dark roots formed by the corrupted leaders of the city, to show signs of how messed up everything is. The end result is millions of people suffering at the hands of homelessness, poverty, and lack of attention from the government. 

As terrible as everything is, it’s hard to leave this shithole of a place. It’s home. It’s all they’ve known, never once have they stepped out of the city. 

They sigh, leaning back into the couch. 

“Did you know sex calls exist?” Ava perks her head up. 

“What? What you mean sex calls?” 

“Some creeps call the hotline so they can get off to the sound of someone’s voice. Especially women. It’s...disgusting.” 

Ava shudders. “Jesus Christ—there are sex phone operators for that type of shit.” 

“Well, they don’t have to pay someone when they call a suicide hotline.” 

“That’s fair, but still. That desperate, huh?” 

“Yup.” 

The two watch a few more minutes of Murray Franklin before they glance at their watch and realize the time. 

“Ah, shit. It’s almost my shift for the hotline.” They brush off the popcorn kernels on their lap and get off the incredibly comfortable couch. Ava waves a hand, her eyes glued on the television. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Update me more on the whole ‘Jerry’ situation. I’m here to help, you know that, right?” 

Ava waves a hand, burrowing further into her couch, eyes staying on the screen. 

“Yeah, of course. Now get out of here before you become late.” 

They rush out of the apartment and into the cold night air. They hail a cab instead of taking the bus, it’d take too long to reach the building. It’s rundown, and looming over them when they step out of the taxi. They don’t like the way the building makes them feel—small, helpless—something about it is a little off, especially at night. 

Easing their nerves—only happens when something is truly unsettling—they enter the old building and head towards the creaky elevator. The government doesn’t put much in terms of funding when it comes to social workers or volunteerism. It’s why everything here is either halfway to being broken or already in shambles. 

They get to their floor and unsurprisingly, there are not many people here to man the lines. When it gets really late at night, no one really wants to talk to people who will creep them out, especially the ones with those mental disorders. It scares off many of the volunteers. 

For them though, interacting with those people is almost fascinating, and helping them is just as satisfying as helping ‘normal people’. 

They get settled into their desk, picking up the headphones to adjust the mic to their lips. 

Once they press the button, signaling their line is open, the night starts. 

It’s like any other typical shift. Calls from creeps, calls from people who think their situations are crises (when really, they are not), calls from people who are talking about joining the riots but are unsure of the consequences (it’s a more common topic now), calls from people who just want someone to talk to. 

“Really, it’s no problem at all. Have a good night, all right?” They say into the mic, smiling as they hear the tearful ‘thank yous’ of a teenage girl who has been stressed out of their mind lately. 

They end the call and lean back into their chair. A long, drawn-out sigh comes out of them, exhaustion clear as day in their tired eyes. They can feel tension in their muscles from sitting for so long, but all they do is a couple of quick stretches before pressing the button once more. 

“Hi, you’ve reached Gotham’s Suicide Prevention Lifeline, how can I help you?” 

There’s nothing over the line. Their brows furrow. 

“Hello? Is anyone there?” 

_ Is this a prank call? _

“If you don’t want to talk, just let me know if you’re listening, okay? Can you press a number for me?” 

_ Beep. _

“Okay, are you in any emergency or in any pain? Press once for yes and twice for no.” 

_ Beep. Beep. _

“So, you’re not a talker, huh? That’s alright. I’m here for as long as you need me to be.” 

They lean back in their office chair, the old chair creaking under their weight. 

“How are you doing? Are you doing good?” 

There’s a long pause over the line. The person on the other side is clearly thinking about it. 

Then, _ beep... beep. _

“Aw, that’s too bad. I know those days. They really suck, don’t they?” 

_ Beep. _

They laugh softly, not expecting a response. 

“Yeah. I hope the day isn’t too terrible for you, but that wouldn’t be the case if you were calling the line, would it?” They hope they’re reeling the person in so that it lowers the chances of them doing something dangerous to themselves. It’s good if they’re able to keep the other person on the line for longer. 

They search their brain for any conversation starters, thinking of what could they say that is hopefully a safe topic is talk about. 

“So, uh, did you see the new Murray Franklin episode tonight?” 

It’s a fast _ beep _, clearly, the person is enthusiastic about the show. 

“Yeah, it was good, wasn’t it? I didn’t like that bit about Franklin talking to Dr. Sally about her kids, though. I thought that was kinda mean.” 

Another beep in reply comes through. 

“You think so too? Huh.” 

“I thought this episode was pretty good, but I love a lot of other episodes, especially the ones where they bring in A-listers I didn’t know the random show in Gotham would actually attract. There’s this one that’s my absolute favorite, is when they talked about these circus acts that were coming into town and just out of nowhere, all the acrobats just come flipping in. That’s definitely my favorite—like all the other Murray Franklin episodes are great but—” 

“My name’s Arthur.” The person over the phone cuts in. His voice sounds a little scratchy, and even a tiny bit high pitched. 

Something like tension they didn’t know they have oozes out of them. They must’ve been worried about the guy without even realizing it. 

“Arthur, huh?” 

* * *

“So, you actually gave your number to this guy?” Ava criticizes, lips quirked in an apprehensive frown. 

“No, no, he gave me his. I do want to get to know him better. He seems... sweet. And he genuinely seems like he wants to talk to me.” 

“Why him, though? I’m sure there are other people you’ve talked to that you would want to get to know better.” They swallow their warm coffee, nodding. 

“Of course, loads. But Arthur...” Echoes of his laughter rings in their ears, the soft timbre in his voice that immediately tells you he’s sad—the type of sadness that hits you in your bones, leaves aches all over your body, the type of sadness that makes you forget about the last time you left happiness. 

Arthur’s voice just tells you he’s lonely, lonely man. 

“He’s the only person who wanted to talk to me more.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there wasn't a lot of Arthur in this but bear with me, the next chapter will have more of him.


	4. a baby's laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unsurprisingly, it's not a great day for Arthur.  
Surprisingly, it ends up on a better note than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter, literally a minute after the last one! Wanted to make up for lost time between the uploads :)

Arthur sighs, fishing within his pockets for the half-empty bottle of pills. 

He swallows them dry, not even wincing at the way the two capsules seem to roughly slide down his throat. 

The bus is late, much later than it usually takes for it to arrive at his workplace’s bus stop. He wants to grumble under his breath, because he knows the bus is late enough for it to get stuck during rush hour. He knows he won’t get a single seat and his apartment is a long way. 

Sure enough, once the run-down bus pulls up in front of him, the bus is filled to the brim, like the people within are packed like sardines. He’s able to squeeze in when a few drop out, and he listens for the ding when he drops in the coins. The air is hot, stuffy, making his blouse stick to his skin. It’s so incredibly humid within the bus that Arthur wonders how it hasn’t driven anyone insane yet. 

In between two men, Arthur stands stiffly, eyes focused out the windows as he tries to ignore the way people are staring at him. He knows he didn’t clean off the clown makeup completely, white paste still clinging to his sweaty skin, red paint still adorning his mouth. His wig is off, but he doubts it would've felt any hotter if he still had it on. He couldn’t be bothered today. 

As the bus moves along, Arthur is left with his thoughts, a lot of them dark and unwelcome. But it’s the regular for him. At this point, he’d be surprised if he had anything else other than his negative thoughts. They creep in his mind without him really realising, like how a sunset would work—people don’t really realise that they’re standing in the shadows until they need the light. 

The person sitting in front of him gets up and Arthur’s knees practically give a scream of gratitude. That is, until the man right next to him elbows Arthur’s ribs hard enough to bruise, a pained grunt escaping his lips. 

“Get out of the way, you freaky-ass clown!” the man snarls, plopping down into the street with an almost possessive gaze. Arthur would’ve laughed at the insult but the throbbing ache in his ribs is able to prevent any mirth from showing. Arthur nods, biting his tongue hard to keep himself from screaming, muttering a soft, “Sorry.” 

The whole bus ride back has more people staring at the man than at Arthur, which gives him a little relief. But it isn’t as though he cares, he mostly just ignores them, more keen on keeping his attention outside the windows. 

* * *

Silver wisps float in the air, blown away by the gentle breeze that flows into the old room. 

The wind is cooling against his skin. It’s ice cold compared to the lukewarm smoke travelling down into his lungs. 

He takes another puff, seeing his third cigarette of the day brighten up with an almost golden glow at the end, ashes falling down onto his messily scrawled handwriting. 

_ How do you get to a hospital quickly? Just stand in the road and wait. _

He takes a sip of his water, letting it cool his mouth, the smoke having felt hot against the insides of his cheeks. His lungs feel like they’re wrapped in a warm blanket, his head seeming like its tilting sideways. The lightness he feels over his body is Arthur’s favourite part. 

He’s about to take another puff when the phone rings. 

He bolts up, almost toppling the chair over and it barely takes him another breath to reach the noisy phone. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi, I’m calling from the car insurance agency called Bel—” 

“Sorry, I’m not interested.” He brings the receiver back into its rightful place. 

He places a hand onto his forehead, shutting his eyes as he feels the embarrassment creep into his psyche. Arthur has to admit that some part of him does miss his friendly caller, considering it’s been a few days since they last spoke. He wouldn’t call himself impatient, but some part of him wishes time would go a little faster just so they’d call a little earlier. 

The phone rings again, shrill and abrupt. His hand comes down to pick it up. 

“Hello?” 

“Good evening, sir, I think you might accidentally cut the phone call. I’m calling from the car insurance—” 

“I said I’m not interested,” he mutters, before putting it back down to cut the call. 

Not even a few moments later, the phone rings again. This time, Arthur can feel the irritation bubbling in his chest. He picks it up fast, and with the firmest tone he can muster, he says, “I said, I’m not interested! How many times do you have to call this number to get the message? Please don’t call again.” 

It’s silent over the line. Then a familiar chuckle rings out. 

“Alright then, Arthur. I won’t bother you ever again.” 

Redness creeps into Arthur’s neck and he stutters, “Hey-Hey, no I didn’t mean you.” 

They laugh. “You sure? You seemed pretty angry when I first called. Did someone tie your shoes together?” 

Arthur lets a small smile mar his lips. He’s unsure if he’s smiling at the sound of their voice or the joke. “No. Someone called from a car insurance agency.” 

“Car insurance? In Gotham? C’mon, who can afford that in this city?” 

“Tell me about it. I just take the bus and subway to get everywhere.” 

“Same here, yeah. Sometimes I carpool with my other friends, but I mostly take public transport,” they say. “Also, am I the only one who gets really irritated when people just elbow you to get to seats? What happened to being gracious?” 

“That’s happened to you too?” Arthur asks, still feeling the slight tingle from the bruise. 

“I once saw someone yell at some guy for being in his way. Just today actually.” Arthur’s brows raise. “Oh?” 

“Yeah, I didn’t see what happened but he called him something like ‘freaky-ass clown’. I mean no offence to the guy who got harassed but that insult actually made me kind of laugh,” they chuckle to themselves. 

Arthur blinks. That sounds almost exactly like... “I was the guy.” 

“Who?” they ask. 

“There was a man on a bus ride who called me a ‘freaky-ass clown’ ‘cause of the clown makeup.” 

“You… That was you?” they ask, a tone of disbelief in their voice. Arthur takes a puff of his cigarette as he hums. 

They chuckle. “I’m sorry about that asshole.” 

“Yeah,” Arthur murmurs, feeling himself relax further as a result of the tobacco and the sound of their voice. 

“We could’ve actually crossed paths, huh?” they wonder. Arthur stares at the stain on the wall, the wallpaper starting to peel back due to the years this shitty building has weathered. The longer he stares, the more his mind creates shapes and contours within the lines of the stain. 

How would they look like? Would they be attractive? Possibly average? Arthur does not have any particular preference when it comes to looks, mostly because he doesn’t spend much—or any, for that matter—time on thinking about that. When he’s alone with his thoughts, he only focuses on women’s bodies, especially the ones pasted in his notebook. Curves and plump flesh; do they only flash across his mind. He never focuses on their faces. Why would he? He doesn’t know these women. He’d rather take what he needs and get rid of the rest. 

“I guess so. I mean, it would have been difficult to miss me anyway. Not many people can say they work as a clown.” 

“That’s a fair point.” 

Arthur carries the phone over to the coffee table, taking a seat in his ratty couch. With the receiver still flushed against his ear, he can hear them breathe over the line, the sounds having an odd sense of calm washing over him. 

He stares at the blank television screen, seeing a warped reflection of himself, shirtless and lightly bruised. The light purple of clotted blood started coming in when he came home. When Arthur first pressed a finger into his flesh, he decided it’s more superficial. He doesn’t even put ice on himself. He knows he’s had worse. 

“How’s your day been?” he asks softly, tapping his cigarette into the ashtray. He frowns, realising how short the cigarette is and just smushing it into the small pile of old ashes. 

“It’s been... interesting. A little bit.” 

“Oh?” Arthur wonders, sitting a little straighter in his seat. “What did you do?” 

“I babysat for a friend’s baby. Oh boy, it was certainly a mess.” 

They hum. “But I have to do it again tomorrow.” 

“And?” Arthur asks. 

“I don’t even know how to hold one!” they exclaim, their voice slightly raising in panic. 

“I don’t even know why I agreed to this arrangement. It’s only for two days and all Alice was doing today was just crying! I tried basically everything.” 

Arthur shrugs. “I mean a pillow always works to keep them quiet.” 

There’s silence over the line and Arthur kind of wishes he can take back words. He hopes he didn’t cross a line—other than the ones he probably already did. 

To his surprise, their laughter rings, which is muffled not even a moment later. 

“That’s so mean,” they say, without an ounce of sincerity in their tone. He can even hear the smile in their voice. Arthur would usually apologize for a joke that dark, but Arthur has had enough conversations with them to know it’s another part of him that they—crazily enough—accept. He likes that about them. 

Arthur hums, “Feeding?” 

“Tried that.” 

“Changing?” 

“Did that too.” 

“Singing to them?” 

“Yeah, I did. I think she hated that the most.” 

Arthur thinks back to all the times he’s interacted with the kids—whether it’d be at Gotham General or parties. 

If Arthur had to choose one thing he’d keep doing in his job, it would be making the kids laugh and smile. It’s a wonderful feeling. The kids are possibly the best part of being a ‘for rent’ clown. 

“Have you tried just... talking to her?” 

“What?” 

“Having a normal conversation with Alice. Like she’s a friend or a co-worker.” 

“Co-worker? How would that help?” they ask curiously. 

Multiple times during parties or visits to the hospital—whenever a kid would come up to him—he’d just start talking to them in his clown get-up, going off about how he grew up in the ‘circus’ or rattling off random jokes. He noticed how the kids seem to like him more when he makes the kids feel more grown-up, or feel like they’re a close friend. 

Especially the lonelier children—the ones who get left behind at the party, or the ones who are ostracised by the others—they seem to cling onto Arthur whenever he starts talking to them. Whenever those particular kids come up to him, he always likes to praise them in front of the others, showering them with a little more attention, even bringing them up to the stage to participate. 

Even babies who want to be held by Arthur, he pretends like they’re the funniest people on earth, always responding to their babbles and coos. 

“The baby will start to listen to you, in a way. They would focus more on what you’re saying. They like the attention.” 

“That actually... might work. Alice only ever cries really hard when I leave her alone,” they say. 

“It only works if you have a patient tone too. The babies I saw during my gigs absolutely love it when I give them more attention. It’s cute,” he says. 

“Didn’t know you’d be such a baby savvy,” they teased. Arthur feels his lips twitch. “You’d be surprised at how many kids don’t run away from me.” 

“I wouldn’t be.” 

Arthur tilts his head. “Why’s that?” 

“I don’t think really anyone would want to run away from a guy as genuine as you are. Kids can catch those vibes,” they say matter-of-factly. Arthur shuts his eyes, feeling a small ball of warmth curl in his stomach. 

“That’s sweet, really,” Arthur mumbles, pressing his lips closer to the transmitter. 

“It’s true!” The sincerity in their voice is bubbly, and Arthur wants to smile wider. But he can’t. 

“I have to act happy for the kids,” he admits, soft regret in his tone. 

“That’s okay, everyone has to put on a fake smile every once in a while.” Arthur has to suppress the itch in his throat to laugh. Luckily, it doesn’t spill out obnoxiously. His body has given him this one grace. 

“It happens more than I’d like,” he practically growls out the words, not defensively, just a sad raspy string of words that orchestrate how deep Arthur is lost in his negativity—drowning in it—sometimes. 

That gives them pause. Arthur just waits, and wonders how many times can they take of his moping before they get sick of it. 

“Well, like the song goes ‘That’s life’. It’s unfair and shitty, but we have to make the best of it. And if making kids smile is that one good thing for you, keep doing it. Cause at least you’re doing Gotham a solid by making ‘em laugh.” Arthur suddenly places the phone on his chest, feeling his breaths coming in soft, fast pants. He doesn’t know why but he really needed to hear that. A pit in his chest, it feels comforted, it feels soothed and calmed. He places the receiver back to his ear. 

“Thanks,” Arthur says, as if what he heard didn’t just send his brain nearly spiralling. 

“It’s honestly no problem. We need more people like you, Arthur.” 

“If we have more of me, ninety percent of the population should be people like you,” he replies back. Arthur isn’t used to paying compliments (or even receiving them) but he feels like it needs to be said. 

They laugh, a sound that still doesn’t fail to make Arthur smile. 

“Have you seen any movies in the cinema lately?” they ask. 

“Not really. I haven’t seen anything new in a long time.” 

“Do you like movies?” they ask, their voice muffled in a way that suggests they’re chewing on something. 

“Are you eating?” he asks, a tone of incredulity within his voice. 

“Yup, haven’t eaten since this morning.” 

“This morning? It’s seven in the evening,” he states, a crease forming between his brows. “That’s not good for you,” he says dumbly, a vague thought that he’s about as thin and gangly as a skeleton hovering over his head. 

“I know, I’ll try not to do it again,” they assure him. “So, movies?” 

“Uh, yeah. I like Charlie Chaplin,” he answers. “Ooh, so you’re a classics fan?” 

“I thought that was pretty clear from how often I talk about Frank Sinatra,” he deadpans. They hum, “Fair point.” 

They start going off on a tangent on this movie they love, some classic called Vertigo. Arthur listens in as he kicks his feet up on the coffee table, gingerly laying on the cushions. He can feel the soft tinge of pain from his newly formed bruise, and he suppresses a soft groan. 

“—and there’s this one scene—hey, are you okay? I heard something.” 

Arthur bites his tongue hard. 

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.” 

“You sound like you’re in pain. Are you okay?” they ask, worry tinting their voice. Arthur prefers them bubbly with excitement as they talk about their movie, he’d rather not have their attention on him, especially because he’s injured. 

“It’s really nothing.” 

“_ Arthur,” _they warn. Arthur sighs. 

“You know the guy who insulted me on the bus today?” 

“Yeah?” they ask apprehensively. 

“Well, he might have elbowed me in the ribs. And I may have a small bruise.” 

“_ How small?” _They prod, and Arthur can already imagine that their brow is raised, awaiting his answer. Usually he’d hate how nosy they are, but Arthur knows they’re not like the other people in his life. They care, and wouldn’t be asking him if they didn’t have a reason to. 

“About... the size of my palm?” he wonders, turning his torso to see the purple dots over his pale skin. 

“That’s... not small, Arthur,” they mumble. “Did you at least put ice on it?” 

Arthur bites his lip. He should lie. 

“No.” 

Goddamnit. 

“At least put ice on it. Then it wouldn’t stay too long, yeah?” they suggest. Arthur blinks. 

“Okay, I will.” 

“Okay. Tell me if it gets any better the next time I call. For now, I want to talk about favourite actors.” Their tone is serious, as if they’re discussing a solemn topic. It makes Arthur grin to himself. 

Not for the first time, he truly wonders how lucky he is in finding them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! I love all the feedback :D

**Author's Note:**

> So tell me what you think! I'm excited. I've never written for Arthur before so this is a first for me.


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